


The Broken and the Beacon

by Feekins



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crying, Fever, Fluff, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Infection, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), shapeshifter AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-24 03:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23502901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feekins/pseuds/Feekins
Summary: Aziraphale has seen it more than enough times to know it's not unusual behavior for a patient delirious with fever. It's so hard, though, watching as the red-haired man he found curled up in the depths of the monster snake's den cries without waking.OR: The (unofficial) Snake In The Grass chapter 2.5
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122





	The Broken and the Beacon

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Snake In The Grass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084329) by [ServantOfMischief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ServantOfMischief/pseuds/ServantOfMischief). 



> Been a while since I've churned out a fic in less than 24 hours, but that's how much this particular scene clamored to be written down. It's also my first fic of a fic, so hopefully this is okay? Anyhow, it's best read after the first 2-3 chapters of the FANTASTIC shapeshifter AU that is The Snake In The Grass. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

The day after he first enters the monster snake's den, Aziraphale knows exactly three things about the pale redhead he's found within: (1) the wound on his shoulder is _particularly_ abysmal - nothing Aziraphale can't fix, mind, but the extent of the damage and the firm hold that the fever of infection has on the poor man is worrisome nonetheless; (2) there are others - scars of all shapes and sizes all over his body illustrating a story of a difficult life; and (3) he cries in his sleep - at least, that's what the healer thinks. In reality, Crowley isn't asleep, but he isn't really awake, either. It's a terrible limbo that's too hot, all hazy and miserable, and his shoulder hurts _so much_ , but there's not a damn thing he can do about it. He can't move - his body is heavy and weak, and it refuses to listen to him. What's worse, something...something _just_ within his periphery...smells different, and it frightens him. Different is _never_ good - not when the shapeshifter has no way of identifying it because he doesn't even have the strength to open his eyes. Crowley is completely and utterly helpless - as if he isn't feeling poorly enough _already_ \- so he does the only thing he _can_ do.

Labored breathing hitches.

A tiny sniff, and then another.

When Aziraphale looks over, sure enough, tears are once again streaming over the bridge of his patient's nose. It's hard to sit and do nothing about it. The poor man needs his rest, Aziraphale reasons with himself. Attempting to wake him from what are undoubtedly fever-induced nightmares would do more harm than good. He _knows_ this - but it doesn't make it any easier, tending to the redhead who cries on and off in the murky depths of an ever-restless slumber.

A deep breath, and the healer gets up to fetch a fresh basin of cool water from the pond. Then, he pulls a clean rag from his pack and, returning to his post alongside his charge's bed of furs, he lets the rag soak in the basin while he rolls up his sleeves. Part of it is practical - a helping hand to ease the redhead's boiling body temperature down to something safer. At the same time, it is not just the body that's sick. The redhead's mind reels, as well, evident in every tear he sheds and every silent sob that trembles through him - and any healer worth their salt knows _comfort_ is its own special, important kind of medicine.

Another noise arises from the bed of furs, so quiet that Aziraphale almost doesn't catch it. When he realizes what it is, he gives a sad, compassionate smile. It seems the redhead _talks_ in his sleep, too. As Aziraphale wrings the rag out until it doesn't drip, he only hopes, for this man's sake, that the mumbling doesn't work its way up to screaming, what with whatever nightmares plague him.

Another mumble, this time much closer to actual words - words that take the healer by surprise, have him frozen in place just as he begins to reach over, cool rag in hand.

"Come again?" he asks.

How strange. That unfamiliar smell is a little stronger, a little _closer_ now, and Crowley desperately wishes he could shrink away from it. At the same time, that voice, although somehow far away, is like a beacon to his fever-fogged mind. Torn between conflicting urges to flee and to follow, Crowley sobs and repeats himself though he isn't sure why, nor does he quite grasp the words that tumble from his mouth.

"Am I dying?"

The redhead's voice is so small, so heartbreakingly _scared_. It seems cruel and unusual not to respond, even if Aziraphale risks waking him. Just in case, then, the healer closes the distance between them slowly and deliberately.

Mouth twisting, Crowley lets out another sob as something soft and cold touches his face. It would frighten him more if not for that voice that finally answers, steady and sure, "No. You're not dying. You're hurt, and your injury has made you very sick, but it is _not_ going to kill you. I won't allow it." A pause. "You are going to be _okay_. I _promise._ "

And despite everything, some tiny part of Crowley believes it.

The tears still come as Aziraphale drapes the rag across his patient's forehead. When, on a whim, he soaks another rag and spends an hour or so just running it up and down the other's back, that lithe body still shudders with the occasional sob. Even so, Crowley becomes less and less restless. By the time night falls, he doesn't cry so much or so frequently because that voice does such _wonders_ to soothe him. Aziraphale is even pleasantly surprised to find, when it's time to change bandages, his still-sleeping patient - despite red eyes and damp eyelashes that stick together - is ever so slightly _smiling_.

The redhead won't likely remember any of this. He probably didn't even register their little exchange, but that's okay. The comfort seems to have stuck, and to Aziraphale, that's all that matters. With gentle words and the utmost care, then, he begins to unwrap the redhead's shoulder. After all, the road to recovery is sure to be long, but Aziraphale is _more_ than willing to carry him as far as he needs him to.


End file.
